Stories' End
by Arwen Jade Kenobi
Summary: He couldn't do this. Writing it down was admitting it. Takes place between "The Final Problem" and "The Empty House."


They say it is time I stopped. 'They', I suppose, means Mary and Mary has long left this world. I have received no complaints from anyone, quite the opposite in fact. I was expecting Mycroft Holmes to have something to say but I've heard nothing from the man since bringing him news of his brother's death.

The public loves them. My publisher loves then. I take some measure of pride in them. There is no reason to stop. Mary said I was losing myself in memories, losing myself in Holmes as surely as he was lost in the falls.

What of it?

The tales began as an attempt to give recognition to his achievements. They still are, at basis, that. In addition they became a form of expressing my pain and grief. I believed that the more I wrote the less grief would be inside me. Not so. The more I write the more pain I feel. I pour heart and soul through my pen and onto those pages. Everything he was, everything I was, everything we were…

No. Everything we _are _because we are not through yet, for as long as I write these stories there is something left of us. Yes, he is gone and I am here but it is enough that one of us is here for a part of us each lives in the other. A part of me is dead with him and a part of him is alive with me. We are together. We were together. We always will be together. Thus, the grief will always be there. No matter how many stories I write they will not resurrect him and they will not bring me peace.

The title "The Final Problem" is scrawled on my ledger. I do not remember writing it but the handwriting is certainly mine and it was not here before I sat down. The Final Problem. The Final Story. The Final Everything.

Today is the day I stop. This will be the story of the end. There are no more stories to tell, no more stories that I am at liberty to tell, and no more stories that do him justice as well as the previous ones have done.

The Final Problem.

I have been referring to Holmes as if he were still alive up until this point. Perhaps it is time I tell my readers the truth. Perhaps it is time that I finally admit to myself that he is not coming back.

_It is with a heavy heart that I take up my pen to write these the last words in which I shall ever record the singular gifts by which my friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes was distinguished._

I cannot do this. I let the pen drop from my fingers and rest my forehead between thumb and forefinger. I cannot do this. Writing it down is admitting it. Writing it down means he is truly dead. Writing it down means the end

I pick up the pen again. I may not think myself able to do this but I certainly cannot continue this ghostly existence I've enjoyed for nigh on three years. Maybe ending it will finally free me. Perhaps I shall finally go out and join the mortal world properly instead of merely observing it from a distance and wondering what stories my friend would deduce from the scenes. I should wire Stanford, maybe even Lestrade. I should move on. Mary was always a very wise woman. Maybe she was right. Holmes and I had our time, and will have it again one day, but for now it has ended.

I still remember what happened when Moriarty's brother put out his lies and I was too affected to scrawl anything other than death threats and obscenities on my ledger. The people deserve to know the truth. Holmes would expect no less and would not be able to fathom why I waited so long.

The words pour out onto the paper. A story of air guns, of train chases, of a pursuit across the continent, of a parting on a hill in Meiringen, and a final farewell on a few pages of paper by the falls. I look over the last words I've scrawled, telling the world and affirming to myself precisely what Holmes meant to me without shouting it from the rooftops, and close the book. It is done. It requires no revision and I cannot bear to go through it all again. Those days are a brand on my consciousness. A scar as essentially a part of me now as the ones on my leg and shoulder are.

I reach for the brandy, pour a glass, whisper a toast to my friend, and sit there nursing it alone in my empty house.

It has ended.

- - -

The Strand says it is a triumph. Even Mycroft sent his felicitations and his assurances that his brother would have approved. The public is in mourning and I'm now subject to enduring condolences from strangers on the street. It is all well meant, I'm sure, but all I can hope for is that they get their superficial grief off of their chests quickly and leave me in peace.

Nothing has changed. I feel as bad, if not worse, than I did on the day itself. I pull out Holmes's letter to me and read it again. It is purely a ceremonial act since I can quote the thing now. i_Especially to you/i_ he'd written. As always, he'd been right. Sometimes I think I'm the only one grieving for him. I know it is illogical, especially now that a city joins me now, but I feel it nonetheless. Perhaps that part of Holmes I've clutched onto now belongs to everyone but even more of my own self left to join Holmes, wherever he is, as a result. Holmes had said once that he hadn't worked alone since making my acquaintance and he had no desire to do so again. It simply would not be put up with.

I hope that part of me is enjoying himself. It is a singular opportunity to be in the presence of Sherlock Holmes. I only wish I'd truly realised it before now. I wish I could apologise for the potential ineptitude of that part of me in any quests he is embarking on. I am physically still a part of the mortal world after all. All that is left to do, I assume, is to fade even further into the fogs that surround this city. I've no doubt that we'll meet again beyond them.

I hope it happens sooner than I imagine.


End file.
